An Itch Finally Scratched

Oct 23 2022

Northport to Rock Isle, WI

I tried not to get my hopes up for another shot at paddling to the end of Wisconsin as the weather started turning for the year. Autumn came on slowly and glorious colors stretched multi-dimentionally across both the landscapes and the month of October. There was an opening in my schedule in the last part of the month that might afford a passage through Death’s Door at the tip of Door County. But I knew it was a long shot. Peninsula State Park reduced their available campsites to one third of their summer capacity for the winter season, winds became more restless, and water temperatures started to plummet. The bone chilling humidity of the first frost had already crept in weeks ago. There was an inch of snow on the ground one morning in the middle of the month as well. But I watched the extended forecast for Sunday, October 23.

Bridget texted one day that she’d booked a campsite that had opened up. Well, we’d be in the neighborhood, at least. Saturday was my kids’ last soccer game, and I wouldn’t miss that for the world. If we high tailed it to Door County from there, we could knock of some miles on the Ice Age Trail, a new endeavor that Bridget is embarking upon, and then head to the campsite for a night’s rest before an early day on the water. The extended forecast called for a high-pressure system to maintain stable weather conditions, and the predicted temperature just kept getting warmer. It’d be a sunny, warm day, but what of the wind? At ten days out, they predicted 10 mph out of the south. Not good. Last time I saw that prediction it was 5 mph, and the reality was quadruple that, with monster waves off Lake Michigan. Well, we’d head up there for some hiking if nothing else. Besides, whatever the wind, we’d find someplace to paddle that had calm water.

Saturday morning dawned clear with gloriously warm temps in the 50s and calm winds. My son and daughter both scored goals in their last soccer games of the year, so the day was off to an amazing start. Bridget and I made the journey to Door County, where we dropped the truck on the Ahnapee State Trail, which was also a segment of the Ice Age Trail.

Instead of peddling the trail, we biked through Sturgeon Bay and into Potowatomi State Park where Bridget had hiked an inaugural stretch of trail with her mom a couple weeks prior. We locked the bikes and started hiking back toward the truck at the only pace I know with her-breakneck.

We traced the shoreline of Sturgeon Bay, walked through town, and made it to the truck. We had to double back to retrieve the bikes I forgot about, and once again made it into our campsite in Peninsula State Park after dark. Our systems for setting camp becoming routine, we were neatly tucked in the tent within a half hour, only to rise before dawn cracked, strike camp, and leave before ever seeing this portion of the park by the light of day. If I was going to meet my objectives, I’d need all the time I could get, favorable winds, and yet more logistical support from my partner in this venture.

We made it to the place from whence the ferries leave at Northport just as the sun broke the eastern horizon on Lake Michigan. The water was not calm. There was a steady offshore breeze, as predicted, of about 10 mph. I had been pretty sure the day would be a no-go, although that may have been in an attempt to keep myself from going out in overly-dangerous

water. The reality was that the waves crashing on the break water, while formidable, were not insurmountable. I knew the wind direction and figured the swells wouldn’t be too much more severe farther out on the open water. The 4-mile passage to Washington Island is interrupted by Plum Island, at about the half way point. From there, the tail of Detroit Island juts to the south to intercept any offshore waves coming between Plum and Washington. I know this is confusing. Suffice to say that I had only 2 miles of open water to worry about, and they lay directly before me-between Northport and Plum Island. Under normal conditions this would be a half-hour paddle. The waters I was seeing I knew I could handle for that time and then some. I was going for it.

There was no conversation as I focused on my gear, clothing, and other preparations. Bridget helped carry my cargo and allowed me to focus on my tasks. In short order I was ready. I posed for a pic before we hugged goodbye, and I took to the water. I knew what I was in for, and nervous of it. My hips weren’t very loose to roll with the waves that were hitting me astern, but I rose and fell with them just fine. I pointed my bow for the coast guard light house on Plum Island and went for it. The waves grew as I put distance between

Endeavor and the mainland, but I was comfortable in my craft and handled them easily. They were off my starboard

quarter, and I kept a peripheral eye on the oncoming swells. Again, I wondered at their size. They were approaching the size I remembered the last time I’d been in these waters, but not quite there yet. Finally, about 2/3 of the way to the lee of Plum Island, the waves were at their biggest. Many crested above the horizon as I sunk into their troughs, and one was at a significantly inclined line of sight. I was wary of larger water that may be in store but still handling this well. I felt it to be a measured risk I was taking. As I neared the island and was out of the ferry channel, I adjusted my course and paddled straight downwind till I was clear of the shoals that may hide a rogue rock that could capsize my hull. I turned back to the north then, and into the calm waters behind Plum Island. I’d made the first leg of the passage. Now to venture back out into ascending seas and cross the ferry route once again. I had a vague notion of how far off Plum Island ferries passed but couldn’t remember for sure. As timing would have it, I saw two of these car-toting vessels simultaneously leaving their respective dockings on the Island and at Northport. I shot straight away from the Island and powered across what was their eventual path as quickly as I could. The waves pushed me along, and I was able to surf a bit as I cleared their course. (Little did I know, the crew on the ferries were keeping an eye on me. The recognized Endeavor atop the truck as we returned from Washington Island that afternoon and one of the workers said, "Well hello again! Man, you were cruising out there this morning!) Satisfied I wouldn’t be a disruption to their route, I relaxed my pace and set my bearing for a protected point on Washington Island’s southwestern tip.

My right shoulder grew tight early on in the passage through Death’s Door, and then sore. I was paddling hard, but also felt restricted in my wetsuit, over which I wore a long sleeve shirt (cotton... what was I thinking!) and then a water tight paddling jacket. That jacket kept water out, but perspiration in. My shirt had grown wet and clammy, sticking to my shoulders and restricting movement.

Gaining the point on Washington Island, I texted Bridget that I’d made it through Death’s door.

Whew-still some weather to consider, but I’d likely made it through the worst of it. Now to paddle up the west coast of the island and round the northern tip. I figured it’d be all protected waters, and I was right-for the first leg, anyway. I slipped into a mundane expectation of gaining prominent landmarks on the shoreline, an island, the far side of a bay, a point, and a second point after that. I was now two hours into the paddle and made the northwestern tip of the island. Gorgeously clear water, tall cliffs, bright skies, and easy paddling.

I texted once more, shed two layers, now down to my wetsuit, and then turned the corner. My torso was liberated without the encumbrance of wet cotton, and I felt refreshingly cooler without so many clothes. I was ready for a stretch that might bring on a touch of headwind as I bore east over the top of Washington Island.

This turned the page on my paddling experience. There were exposed waters to the south in Washington Harbor, and the wind whipped off the starboard bow. Waves weren’t huge, but they slapped my hull, washed my deck, and occasionally sprayed my chest and face. It was gnarly water for sure, and the weather helm of my hull kept wanting to drive my bow into the waves. I fought it with tough right hand paddle strokes, but I was becoming exhausted. Especially my right shoulder. I made my way slowly and surely toward the calmer, protected waters on the far side of the bay, but now I was terrified of what might lay in store en route to the tip of Rock Island. That passage, with waters exposed to the full force of what had grown to 15 mph winds off the lake, may not be doable.

I resigned to paddle out toward my final destination, just another 3 miles distant, but mentally prepared myself to turn back at any moment should the beam seas become too much for me or my nerves. But the waves were smaller than expected as I ventured out into the growing whitecaps. I was nearly beam to the swells, and my right shoulder was still paying the price of the onslaught. About a third of the way to the point of Rock Island, I figured I was in the roughest of the water. For some reason it still wasn’t as bad as I anticipated. I didn’t dwell on this, just appreciated it.

I paddled on toward the northern point, predicting the wind and waters would bend around the island and more cooperatively approach my stern. They did, and I was able to gleefully surf a bit as I slid to my ultimate destination of the summer, the northern point of Rock Island State Park, the tip of Wisconsin, straddling Green Bay and Lake Michigan. A resting place on a Native American trade route that has afforded shelter to paddlers for millenia. As I approached the rock face of this point, vegetation came into focus. Humongous birds soared on the winds, venturing from the overstory above the rock precipice and the exotic teal-colored waters. Poetically, they were a family of bald eagles out for a Sunday stroll.

I rounded the point to the sanctuary of peaceful waters.

I bobbed easily on the remnant waves but was protected from the wind. I did it. I made my destination. My dream realized. I looked to the north and there was the

next island. The sensation I had in witnessing that next island was conspicuous in what it was missing. It didn’t call to me, not at all. If anything, it made me feel like I was too far from home. The moment was almost anticlimactic because of my exhaustion, logistical coordination with Bridget, and the knowledge that I still had a passage to make through hairy water. I wasn’t out of this yet. I tried to

drink the occasion in, but as is often the case in the precise moment, there were many things to weigh and be mindful of-out of self-preservation.

One thing I was able to capture, though, the water. It was clear, bright, vivid, and completely foreign to me. The turquoise hue created a presentation I have never seen from Green Bay or Lake Michigan. The naked limestone bottom spread out directly below me, with great cracks and fissures etching it’s surface like the wrinkles and creases of an ancient hand. The unfamiliar feel of this waterscape was somewhat eerie. Its splendor, in this moment of exhausted distraction, was almost lost on me. It was like stepping in from a rugby match, sweaty, grimy, and gnarly, to an exquisitely formal spread of food and refinement, the subtleties of which a person hardened from the trials of the field cannot distinguish. With the defiling ways in which I drive, eat, and win my daily bread, I felt like I didn’t deserve to be privy to such exquisitely pristine surroundings. I knew not what to do with the beauty I beheld. It was more than I could bear, like water flowing off a parched sponge that cannot absorb its succulence. I knew this to be the case, so I snapped a picture in hope of capturing what I knew I was missing. And with that, I left for Jackson Harbor, where Bridget had agreed to meet me with the truck. Someday, if I could possibly live more gracefully in concert with the providential nature of my surroundings, perhaps I’ll be able to fully comprehend the magnificence of that wilderness. That is my ultimate aspiration, and to initiate a trend toward the restoration of our hinterlands to that level of purity. It is so tragic that we harden our senses to the degree that we cannot conceive of such beauty and grace as was surrounding me in that moment. And because we cannot perceive it, we cannot be aware that we destroy it. We’re lost in the smog that surrounds our lives rooted in industry, not even noticing the devastatingly putrid shroud of our own making. But that is just one price of our progress, mostly overlooked by the vast majority of society. I only hope I didn’t leave a greasy streak of the slovenliness that is consequential of my own life upon the water as I paddled away from that magical spot. I achieved it in the cleanest way I could imagine, but those means are still devastating to its beauty.

Now. Do I hold to the somewhat protected shoreline of Rock Island as I make my way back to Washington Island, or do I take a direct route across open water to what I think I can make out as the opening to the bay that is home to the harbor? I monitored conditions, followed the shoreline, and slowly eased my way out into the fray of the wind and waves. As I wandered slowly askew to the shore, the waves again didn’t grow as I expected them to. I was now closer to the narrows where the waves of Lake Michigan would wash through and pummel my craft, but they never materialized. I drew abreast of the slot between the two islands, feeling every bit of the force of the wind, but the waves were like child’s play compared to what I was expecting—even smaller than when I made the northbound passage out toward the Rock Island Point. How could this be?

I gazed intently toward the slot between the two islands. I knew from satellite imagery that there was a shoal here, and sure enough-it was shallow enough that the waves off the lake broke as they entered. The turbulence I experienced was only what the wind could stir up between the shoal and my location. That’s why the waters were smaller than expected. Still, I had the wind to contend with. Now exhausted, and with my left shoulder being worn down trying to keep my bow pointed toward my destination, I struggled on toward my sanctuary. I finally made the bay at Jackson Harbor and entered

the lighter colored waters of the shoals. I even paused to rest a time or two before making it to the boat landing. Bridget pulled in at about the same time as me and was exuberant in her congratulations to me.

I grew emotional as my fatigue finally took hold, but I stifled it till I was ashore. I stumbled through aches and pains as I extracted my cramped body from the cockpit that had held it captive for the last four and a half hours. I almost toppled over trying to carry Endeavor from the water to a patch of grass where the gear could be transferred to the truck. Bridget went to grab the truck and I began releasing lines and hatches. Suddenly I was overcome and found myself sobbing in an emotional state of physical and mental release. My vessel, my body, and my psyche had carried me to some pretty far reaches and I was fresh from the moment of that pinnacle. And Bridget’s unconditional support was amazing.

We packed the truck together and I could not formulate the words of appreciation, gratitude, and fulfillment I was experiencing.

My aches and exhaustion were overwhelming. Needless to say, Bridget drove us back to Nelsonville, home near the headwaters, where in a perfect ending to the experiential leg of this endeavor, I received my kids.

Thanks again, Biege. I owe ya big time.

Prologue

When I was out on the water, I could see the next island from Rock Island in the archipelago separating Green Bay from Lake Michigan, and it is part of the state of Michigan. It was right there, well within reach. Just another hour’s paddle away.

But it did not constitute the next horizon of my journey. I was not called to it, not as the waters of Green Bay had beckoned as I advanced toward the mouth of the Fox River. I had physically traveled, in the truest sense of the word, far enough. It is now time to shift my attention and efforts in this Endeavor.

Bridget drove us down-island to Detroit Harbor, from whence the ferry would carry us back to the mainland. As we swayed on the third level of the boat, some 40 feet above the water, I was able to look out upon its vast expanses. A feeling crept in, for the second time, and it was a bit foreboding. As we drove back down the peninsula and I saw the bays and open water I had paddled this summer, and that feeling grew. I had the same feeling on the ferry that gloomy day one month previous, and on this day as I looked at the next island beyond my stopping point. While I had attributed it to the weather and fatigue, as logic would hold, something about it felt deeper than that. It was like I was pushing the limit of what I should be doing at this time. This series of trips have been my own and have so far only benefited me. I have reached the frontier of what I should “do” at this time, what I should, as my ARE model holds, Experience. I Learned to build this vessel, I Created it, and now it is time to Share what I have gained. That is what this blog is for, but I feel there is more to this story.

I hope that when the time comes, you’ll invest the time to read more about this concept and embrace the call to empower others who are inspired by the story of your own Endeavors. I feel that if we can all hone in on the essence of our passions and truly own the experiences and undertakings that bring us closest to them, that we will find more common ground with each other and have truths revealed through the nature of our activities that are more far reaching and in concert with natural laws than the things that are fed to us through various media outlets. We've gotten away from truly living, and it's tearing us apart. May we Endeavor to get back to the roots of who we are and turn this ship around.